


Solo, Ensemble and Symphony

by GinorJing



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Originally in Chinese, Translation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-13
Updated: 2013-09-20
Packaged: 2017-11-29 04:52:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/682996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GinorJing/pseuds/GinorJing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After-Fall story, except the fall's at Meiringen. He's gone. He's back. He's been playing the violin all alone. Will John realize what Sherlock means to him? A translated work from a beautiful Chinese fanfic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ten Emails

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [协奏，交响与独自沉迷](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/17345) by 蓝莲花. 



> This is a translation work from an amazing Chinese Sherlock fanfic written by Blue Lotus. I wept when I first read it and then immediately dived into Sherlock fandom (English). Hopefully I can produce something equally beautiful.
> 
> Also, this is a kind of AU, because the beginning of the story is extracted from Sir Conan Doyle's work, and to warn you guys, John married Mary (not necessarily happy). The timeline might be a little bit confusing, but it won't affect the plots.
> 
> Ok. I'm starting this grand project now (the original work is over 100,000 words). There will be musical pieces coming as Sherlock plays his violin. Hope you guys enjoy this fic!
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own any of these characters. (God I don't even own this story. Poor me.)

Ten e-mails

3/5/2020

Mycroft,

Sorry to have shaken off your boys. Surely you realized that Mr. Moriarty and I are playing the final game; therefore I shall remain excessively cautious. Your men are slightly better than, if not equally destructive as those Scotland Yard morons. Had I allowed them to follow, Mr. Moriarty would have gladly knocked on my door, standing on their bodies.

An extraordinarily brilliant rival, Mr. Moriarty. I've been enjoying the chess. However, to be honest, there are risks I can't withdraw, unharmed, in the last battle. Undoubtedly I will give him some rough time, and we're likely to perish together. My apology if you are saddened, were the situation to descend to the worst. But please understand that it's inevitable. Perhaps it's a comfort to you that even if it ends here, I flatter myself that my life hasn't been wasted, and I can go on another journey without regret.

Alas! I shall be honest, at least now, shan't I? I'm sorry that I've been giving you headaches since I was 12 years old, yet deep down in my heart—though I never admitted— I've always respected and admired you. You're beyond me, in whatever abilities: observation, self-discipline or long-term strategic planning. Envy you? Yes, subtly. Meanwhile I'm also very proud of you, of your excellence. And please allow me to express my gratitude—do you really think that I haven't discovered that it was you who led me to this trade?

Earlier this evening, I played Cannon in D Majorwith the hotel band, which reminded me of our last duet before you went to Oxford. That was perfection. Melodies waltzing in my mind, at least now I feel very happy.

I reckon you already know that I had visited John the night before I left London and invited him to go on a holiday with me in Europe. His loyalty! It terrifies me to think of his deadly grief when he hears the bad news. Inviting him must have been the most irrational stroke in my book. Too late to remedy.

I've made a plan, though. And let's hope it can work. "Hope" as I put it—under normal circumstances, John's brain capacity wouldn't allow him to find out the loophole of my plan. Nevertheless, Dr. Watson may become Dr. Who for a second or two if he's serious about the matter and try hard enough. So please take care of him on my behalf, in case he finds out anything.

I tried to write to mom but failed miserably. Please tell her I love her forever. And thank you for always taking care of her.

Best wishes,

Sherlock

Meiringen, Switzerland

 

6/5/2020

My dear boy,

Please contact me. Stop playing hide-and-seek. Time to go home.

John has seen better days. Your plan, maybe not a total failure, only had little positive effects. The good doctor encountered two hikers who claimed to have seen the final duel between you and Moriarty. Your story apparently won't work. He is wracked. Come back and take care of him yourself.

Mycroft

Meiringen, Switzerland

 

13/5/2020

Sherlock,

I must go back to London. Mom is suspicious.

Stop your childish game. Everyone is worried about you. I've turned this place upside down for a dozen times, and my men won't withdraw unless they find you. Pray don't be found by me if you are still hiding in some god-knows-where cave, because I will definitely squeeze some sense out your little complacent brain by then. Don't try me. This is your ultimatum.

Write to me.

Mycroft

 

20/5/2020

Sherlock,

I brought John back to London. I'm afraid he isn't well, at all. And you are the only person who knows and has the cure.

If you're just running away from it, please stop it. Stop being irresponsible. Come back, and I will give you what you want most.

We both know that you can count on my words. So come back. You will have your dream.

Mycroft

 

20/5/2020

Sherlock,

John closed his clinic. He hasn't recovered from the destructive blow. Honestly, he may never walk out of it.

I'll do best I can. But I'm not the person who can drag him out of the eternal dismay pushing him towards the brink of collapse.

Mycroft

 

3/6/2020

Sherlock,

I'll be forced to take some extreme measures unless you make some sounds.

Hope it's obvious to you that your disappearance in this manner will inevitably bring out my utmost resentment towards you. Kindly remind you that I'm a thousand fold eviler that your good, loyal doctor.

Mycroft

 

15/7/2020

Sherlock,

You didn't take my words seriously.

I hate such audacious threat. Apparently stronger stimuli are needed in this case: I plan to uncover all your secrets to Dr. Watson. Imagine the shock. And I can verify his doubt about your disappearance.

And I won't be responsible for his behaviours thereafter. I'm afraid your blog writer is too emotional. In case you don't remember, he was sad for a whole year after you pet dog died.

Please understand this is your last warning.

Mycroft

 

1/8/2020

I'll never accept that you're dead. For God's sake, you're a Holmes!

A Holmes shall not die so unobtrusively, even at the hands of Moriarty!

You disappointed me immensely.

Mycroft

 

15/08/2020

Sherlock…

 

4/9/2020

Today I played Cannon in D Major several times for you at the Fall. The song is soulless without you. Gazing into that pool, I still can't believe you're in that cold abyss.

My sense is telling me you are dead, which is the result concluded from all the tracking, investigation and reasonable deduction. I even resort to some illegal means to inquire those two hikers who claimed to have seen you fell together. I believe they are telling the truth. And…given that I've been using John as the threat, you couldn't have remained nonchalant if you were alive.

I'm tormented by regret. I'd never been there for you when you most needed me. I've always thought I'm a good big brother, but I've missed all what mattered.

I refuse to believe you're dead, until I obtain the permission to dam the Fall and dry the pool, and find your body.

I'll keep 211B for you. Return when you like.


	2. Watson's Journal 1

07/09/2020  
I’m John Watson.

I’m not writing the blog. This is for myself. Just have to write it down. Nobody else needs to see it. 

I have to rely on that fucking stick again. I didn’t go to the shrink. Why bother? There’s only one person in this world who knows the cure…

Must stop now. These thoughts are just destructive.

Ok, maybe I can face what happened four months ago after some time, but now, the mere projections can fucking kill me.  
　　  
In fact, I’ve been half-mad in the past few months, haunted by fever and nightmares, my brain a crucible of burning metal--splashing turbulently, cruelly dissolving my veins and muscles. Every bone ached. I could smell myself charring. Like I was sent to hell—had it really existed.

Now the metal cooled. Only it became cold, hard and grotesque, its sharp edges paining me now and then. Yet excruciatingly slowly it’s been flowing from my brain, through my neck and to my stomach, urging my blood out of my veins and gradually turning me into a metal monster.

Only that I know there’s one thing I have to do. My last hope, yet also my deepest fear. I’m already in hell, but I’ve no idea if it’s the exit or the entrance to infernal flames.

It’s two o’clock in the morning. Mary’s getting up. She will soon be knocking on my door, asking when I’m going to sleep, carefully hiding her anxiety behind the uncaring, nonchalant pretense. 

I have to save it. Already have a password in mind. 

For a very long time I hadn’t had any password because it was a waste of brain cells. My roommate would decode it within a minute and my ability of creating passwords would be relentlessly laughed at. 

I don’t have to worry about it now.

He is not here anymore.


	3. Watson's Journal 2

01/11/2020

It’s been two months since I last wrote.  
My clinic’s been reopened. Lost many patients, yet welcomed some new. Advantage of doing business in Kensington.  
Having no patients coming in since 4pm yesterday, Susan and Julie asked for an early leave. They both wanted to go home, cook dinner and send their kids for the Halloween trick-or-treating. Of course I said yes. I’m grateful that they didn’t abandon me for another long-term employment when I was sick, only taking some short-term contracts during temporary shutdown. 

After they left, the clinic fell into unrippled silence. I spent some time dealing with that issue, yet only making negligible progress. Then I called Mary, telling her that I have to visit a patient and will probably arrive home late.  
Actually I just wanted a walk, alone.  
It was already getting dark. Young people in bizarre costumes flooded the street, swarming to the pubs. With my stick I walked slowly, probably blocking a gang who therefore bumped against me when passing by, leaving me awkwardly turning around to stabilize myself. And I saw a Halloween store.  
A dozen of customers wandered around dozens of discount sales. An anxious couple were showing their kid some ridiculous costumes while the poor boy was screaming his anger for being late for the candy carnival.  
I gazed at them for a while before suddenly realized that the shop owner was waving at me earnestly behind the counter. I pointed at myself in question, and received two big dimples and several emphatic nods.  
I crawled towards the door in hesitation which was welcomed by some enthusiastic pats on my shoulder and “welcome back, mate”.  
I looked at him, bewildered.  
“A born Hobbit! You, mate! Where is your vampire friend?”  
I stared at that happy round face, feeling surreal that the lights in the shop were absorbed by the night sip by sip. 

Ah. That year. The interior of the shop was shrouded by a veil of creepy red light; a huge jar full of scarlet liquid erected at the entrance, within its belly some entrails and eyeball-like stuff were floating dubiously. Sherlock, as if saw his huckleberry friend, rubbed his hands in excitement and grinned at me. “John, what a fantastic embellishment for our fireplace! Definitely a perfect company for my skull!” Before I could protest, he tossed his coat rear and strode into the shop.  
That jar was actually not for sale; and even if the owner had been willing to sell it, we couldn’t drag it to UWL. The unlucky university had seen suicides in Halloween dance in two consecutive years, and Lestrade, who didn’t have enough evidence to file the case, recommended Sherlock to the president in private. Sherlock had merely been on a field trip and just thrown it aside, until a few hours before it he dragged me to this sodding shop to buy costumes and masks to sneak into the dance.  
The shop owner solved our costume problem in ten minutes, and then urged us to try them on. I looked at mine and then Sherlock’s and asked in embarrassment, “Are you sure you don’t have my size for that one?” He shook his head and I quit, resignedly taking them to the fitting room.  
Sherlock was already there when I was ready. He was in that beautifully fitted vampire costume, a noctilucent mask in hand, and asked me with gentle mock in eyes, “Would you bother to enlighten me, John, but I really don’t know what you are wearing?”  
My admiration for his new image was instantly swept away. “For God’s sake don’t show off your ignorance even if you’re the only English man who doesn’t know Hobbit!” I irritatedly retorted.  
He bit his lips without fighting back. His Majesty showing white feather more or less seemed pitiable. He had learned to withdraw his thorns when I was angry; wickedly, he had many little tricks to extinguish the fire and then smugly bare his fangs.  
I stepped in front the mirror and tried to put on the stupid wig. The mirror caught the sight of him typing rapidly behind. Five seconds later, he suddenly approached in two strides, giggles burning my ear. “Hobbits, adorable creatures, usually two to four feet tall,” he recited, “Friendly and jovial. Have big and bright eyes and a lifestyle of eating and socialising.” He turned around, facing the shop owner. “I have to admit this is a brilliant idea!”  
The fattish little man laughed. “I knew! You are the best Hobbit and Vampire, gentlemen. I knew it the moment you stepped in!” He deftly pulled out a camera from the counter, “Gentlemen! Fancy a picture?”  
“With pleasure!” Sherlock was all chipper. I opened my mouth to protest, but Sherlock was quicker; he dragged me beside him---and it was all it took---a white flash. The next moment he already tossed cash on the counter and whirled out of the shop, waving his mask and shouting, “Taxi!”

I grabbed shop owner’s arm, “You took a picture back then, didn’t you?”  
“Of course,” he answered, “I’ve displayed it in the window, and the sale of those two went up more than I expected!”  
An ecstasy rushed through me; I couldn’t help shivering in expectation. I don’t have Sherlock’s photos. Not even one.  
“Can I have it?” I asked, voice unsteady.  
“Oh, I’m sorry, mate. My window was smashed last year by a bunch of drunken kids. Everything was properly rescued except that picture, and my hard disk was spoiled by Tommy—I mean my son—you know, a cup of milk. It’s impossible to retrieve it.”  
I stared at him numbly, fingers uncurling automatically.  
He somehow became excited. ” What about me taking another one for you? Ask your vampire friend? He’s perfect for this year’s trend! See that sorcerer’s attire over there? For you, I recommend Teddy Bear. With your help, I can have a very fruitful-----”  
A glimpse of me his excitement was completely frozen. “What…what’s wrong?” He stuttered.  
I just shook my head.  
He studied me carefully, and then suddenly looked away as if he couldn’t bear looking at me in the eye. “I’m sorry. If…I didn’t know…” he said incoherently, eyes full of emotion near pity.  
The couple picking costumes finally finished their task and walked towards the counter. He got the chance to get away from me.  
I stood there stiffly while watching the parents pay for those costumes. The kid held a Ouijia board stubbornly and screamed like a ill-played violin every time his parents told him it was inappropriate for his age.  
They were eventually gone five minutes later. And I put a Ouijia board on the counter. He looked at it, opened his mouth several times, and finally said,” Listen mate, don’t use it tonight. I’m not trying to scare you, but what wander in the streets won’t just be kids.”  
“Thank you for the tip.” I nodded, thinking the otherwise. 

I called Mary after. I told her that the patient was in serious condition and needed intensive care. I was a terrible liar, and guilty. I thought I heard suspicion in her tone, but she took it nonetheless.  
Slowly I walked to Baker Street. It’s been a year since my last visit. A memory I’d never want to touch again.  
Mary said that Mrs. Hudson had visited me when I was ill, sedated and asleep. I didn’t contact her, though, after I recovered; I wasn’t sure I could talk to her like nothing had happened, like one of her former tenants hadn’t d…  
When I arrived, she was standing at the threshold, holding a jar and surrounded by some greedy kids chanting “Trick or treat”.  
I stopped and looked at her from some distance until she noticed me. She stared at me for about three seconds, and then---“God!” she cried, and tossed her jar. She wept on my shoulder in the witness of those little devils and wizards. Miraculously calm, I gently pat her on the back and gave her my handkerchief.

“You two,” she protested in tears,” you two just left without a word.” I didn’t know how to respond.  
She invited me in, the door closed behind me. I was frozen in front of the too-familiar stairs. Mrs. Hudson squeezed my hand comfortingly. “Come on, darling. You know he will come back.”  
I managed to extract some courage from the thin air and smiled to her, “I’ll go up alone.” She nodded, compassion in eyes.  
“If you want to stay here overnight, I change the sheets every week,” she said, “I will bring you some tea.”  
I slowly climbed up the stairs with my stick. Looking up at the door, all of a sudden I felt images flooded towards me and everything was so familiar--- Sherlock had finished the stairs in a few leaps and turned around to look at me, hand already on doorknob and eyes glinting in the darkness; a childlike impatience on his face, he was waiting for me to come to him and open the door as if there were treasures inside.  
I smiled towards the Sherlock shadow. It was a decade ago. Some anonymous wind sneaked in and reticently pushed at the door; streetlights flickered outside window, and I saw in dim light Sherlock’s sofa and my armchair.  
I was already in my armchair when Mrs. Hudson brought tea. I didn’t turn on the lights. She glimpsed the sofa habitually when she put down the tray, sighed, and closed the door for me.  
I sat in the dark for an eternity, until the faint sounds of tele downstairs faded away, until I was certain that Mrs. Hudson had gone to bed. I took out the Ouijia board and put it on my knees. 

I had tried it once back in medical school with some friends, for fun, but it turned out that ghosts were not at all interested in our little adventure. I still had a vague memory that the pointer would hardly move if there was only one person in the game. Believers say it’s because the spiritual power isn’t strong enough; sane human beings say it’s because holding it by yourself without other people pulling at it won’t create any unequal forces which could make the pointer move.  
I put my finger on the pointer, pushed it to turn around, and closed my eyes. I didn’t have to try to focus, the moment I set foot in 221B, my brain has been occupied by Sherlock.  
It was even quieter. Breath by breath I felt the furnishings of the room vanished; I felt that I was wrapped in a haze and outside of it some shadows were walking around, watching me intently. A quickening noise was impending. I opened my eyes. It was my own breath.  
“Please,” I inhaled deeply, my lung aching, “If you are here, please say something!”  
My fingers were trembling, but the pointer was stubbornly still.  
Despair was suffocating me, but I still need one more breath. Another try.  
“I need a proper ending,” I said, “That’s all I want. I swear to God I can and will accept whatever you’ve prepared for me.” I paused, suddenly struck by a rush of dry and bitter anger. “For God’s sake, Sherlock, you didn’t even say goodbye to me!”

I looked up into the air in front of me, catching him hallucinatively appearing on the sofa in his blue gown, his unruly black curls and pale cheeks so real. So close. Opposite me he was watching me playing this stupid game, eyes half-lidded, a mocking quirk of lips brushing by his face.  
I involuntarily loosened one hand, reaching out to him. Trembling terribly, I said, “Sherl---“

The moment my fingers touched his hair, he was gone. Meanwhile I felt the pointer beneath my hand was slowly moving. I plunged my head, watching it slipping into a corner of the Ouijia board. And it stopped.

In the pale light, I saw the lettering in the corner----“Farewell”.


	4. Watson's Journal 2b

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Journal two is just too long. So I broke it into two parts.

I didn’t know how long I had been sitting there, or what I was thinking. When I finally noticed the time, the birds were already chirping, and the light penetrating the window turned ashen grey.

My watch said it was four in the morning.

I stood up, slowly walking to Sherlock’s room, pushing the door ajar.

The curtain kept the room in perfect darkness. I fumbled for his bed and sat down, fingers caressing his pillow. The silk pillowcase would be warmed by body temperature, but it felt cold after the owner was gone. I stroked it unconsciously, trying to warm it up as if he was still there. 

Between the headboard and the wardrobe stood a box, in which slept Sherlock’s Stradivari. Even if it was definitely his favorite, he didn’t refuse to play other anonymous violins. As it was, his most passionate performance I’ve ever seen was done with a violin snatched from a student orchestra. 

It was the Halloween dance at UWL. I thought he wanted quiet observation, yet apparently he intended to put on a show, (as if) determined to become the centre of the world. 

The vampire attire, perfectly tailored for him, highlighted his tall, lean figure, magnifying and sharpening his statuesque uniqueness. Inexplicably subtle and Victorian-like elegance radiating from his movements, noctilucent mask properly sheltering his penetrating eyes and overly expressive face, he did become the centre of the attention the moment he set foot in the dance.

As for me, well, I was a quasi-cute Hobbit at most. I was practically left undisturbed except for some tiddly girls petting me on the head. I hid in the corner, watching Sherlock charm those college girls, surprised by the fact that he actually could say those sweet words with his deep voice, and he was an excellent dancer, Latin, tango, even salsa.

I noticed a boy in demon costume fuming at Sherlock. A little chat around told me he was the captain of the football team, the most popular guy in the university. How ridiculous, the world’s only consulting detective, at age of 33, was now competing with a football captain for girls’ giggles.

Sherlock apparently knew no modesty. After flirting and dancing with all the girls in UWL, he somehow found the light control and illuminated the whole room. Then he snatched a violin straightly from a student, and jumped onto the stage.  
People cursed loudly, trying to cover their eyes, while he stood on the stage, shouting to the crowds: “Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Hell!” He starts with a fast tempo piece, casting a dark spell on the crowds with a lavishly evil passion. Later I came to know that piece was Monti’s Czardas.

People soon became enchanted by the melody, dancing madly; and he played that magic movement over and over, eyes raking overthe crowds and suddenly lit up with intent. Then the music slowed down, turning into some mysterious sadness. He was still gazing at a certain direction in the dancing throng. I could even imagine his smug smirk behind the mask. 

He nodded slightly when he noticed me, his gaze on me for 30 seconds as if I was the only audience in the world. I was suddenly overwhelmed a tide of unbelievable excitement, like reliving the ecstatic moment years ago when I went to see U2’s concert. 

Three minutes later, he jumped off the stage, throwing the violin back to its owner and pushed through the crowd. I was gonna follow him when suddenly my phone started buzzing in my pocket. It took me a while to dig it out from my ridiculous Hobbit attire. 

“Wait for me at the loo in the east wing. SH” 

In a moment I thought he sent it to the wrong person. The next moment I realized that it must be the case. Amazing that I still remembered what we were here for in the first place.

I was welcomed by some fighting sounds when I rushed to the destination. When I broke in, there was already a boy lying at Sherlock’s feet. Sherlock, however, was tearing off his lopsided mask, throwing it into the dustbin. 

“John, allow me to introduce,” he turned on the tap to wash hands, “our murderer, the future pharmacist.”  
The boy on the ground was scrawny with an almost handsome face, sprawling hopelessly on the tiles, looking like everything but a homicidal maniac. 

“Why did he kill those people?” I asked. 

“School violence,” Sherlock answered, “he has often been bullied and has become resentful of all popular kids. The first victim was the culprit; the one of last year was killed to vent his resentment. I was picked this year. I’m the prey of this year. He tailed me the minute I left the crowd.”

“So all this showing off and lights were for…”

“I had four suspects. Only three are present today. I could spot them clearly on the stage. Even if he thought he was more than safe hiding in this dancing lot.”

“But how did he manage to kill them while faking a suicidal scene?” All the victims were athletic type. 

“He followed the victims to the loo, and injected this anesthetic when they took off their trousers,” Sherlock pointed syringe with the tip of his shoe, “and dragged them into the compartment, making them kneel in front of the toilet and cut their throat with the knife in their own hands. The blood would drip into the toilet. The floor was clean, and therefore even if someone noticed the victim’s feet when passing by, they would only think that it was some drunken man vomiting. The last step was a neutralizer injection which would render the anesthetic undetectable in autopsy.” 

“Then how could he lock the door from the outside?”

“John,” Sherlock impatiently pointed out, “the bolt can be easily cracked by a stick or a wire from the outside.” 

I could hear the siren from afar. 

“Ha!” Sherlock said, “Lestrade isn’t too tardy!”

We refused Lestrade’s kind offer of a police car ride, walking out of the campus together. 

Recalling the excitement caused by Sherlock at the dance, I couldn’t help saying: “Your college life must have been very exciting.”

He gave me a quick glance. “I wouldn’t say that.”

I grinned. “I have eyes. Those girls were mad for you.”

Sherlock only lifted his eyebrow. “John, people have seen me as a monster since I was young. I couldn’t accept myself back then and was upset by it. I tried to change. I observed those popular people and analysed the causes of their popularity. I summarised their common traits and employed them.” He paused and shrugged, “it wasn’t difficult, John. I became the most popular person in a few months. Just like what you saw, I can charm people if I’m willing to. “He shook his head in disgust, “however, I soon found that it wasn’t what I truly want. They liked me because of the illusions I showed them. They didn’t know who I truly am. And if I expose my true self, they would resume their disgusted face and say ‘piss off’.” 

“Sherlock!” I exclaimed, “those people don’t deserve you!”

He tilted his face and smile to me. “Thank you, John,” he responded, “fortunately, I figured that out by myself, even though it took me some time. “

I thought about his words, suddenly feeling sad for him. Though he mentioned it casually, I could imagine his loneliness at the time. There were words at my throat, eager to burst out to assure him that at least he had me, his friend. He didn’t have to put on the mask when with me, and I would always be fascinated by the real Sherlock. I took his hands and said it out loud, “I wish I could have met you earlier.” 

Sherlock suddenly stopped. He turned around, gazing at me, eyes so sharp that they made me feel I was being dissected.But I looked directly into his eyes. We stood under a street lamp, I watched his beautiful grey eyes wobble in the sockets, and then he lowered his eyes to look at our joint hands, a warm smile blossoming on his face. 

“Not late at all, John,” he said, “not late at all.” 

We were in strangely high spirits that night, walking for an hour in the beautiful London streets back to Baker Street. Both in our costumes, we went to the Chinese restaurant at the three in the morning. And after a feast we got back to the apartment, crashing in our own beds, falling into a dreamless sleep. 

As if being awakened from a dream, I found myself in Sherlock’s cold bedroom, falling from sweet memories into ice-cold reality, gasping at the sharp contrast. 

I subconsciously grabbed the violin, which was cold as well. 

I opened the violin case, from which emitted a rosin scent used to be associated with my friend. I indulged myself in the scented darkness for a while, and turned on the lamp on the cabinet. I carefully examined the violin in my hands. 

Before putting it back into the case, I noticed that the liner of a corner was a little loose. I tried to lift it, not expecting the whole baseboard just went up and revealed a narrow interlayer. 

There was only one thing in it: an A4 size photo with its face down.  
Curiously, I turned it over. 

It was a photo I had never seen.

I’m in the Hobbit’s mustard-hued jacket, yellow vest and green cloak, wig crooked and face dull. Next to me stands Sherlock, who is in a black jacket with standing collar and silver linings, face pale and eyes bright and cocky as a cat’s, his hands on my shoulder, his face flush against my wig. 

I was almost blinded by pain.


End file.
